


Canary

by skyewardfitzsimmonsphillinda



Series: Spiritus Vitae [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: BAMF Nyssa al Ghul, BAMF Sara Lance, F/F, Gen, and it's the league, but m just to be safe, falling in love with the canary, lessons in love and war, not planning major slash, ok there might be a little slash, or violence, so it's going to be a bit dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2041536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyewardfitzsimmonsphillinda/pseuds/skyewardfitzsimmonsphillinda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The warrior finds the canary. </p><p>(A prequel).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fighting Death

Sara Lance was dying.

She knew it.

(Knew it would end like this knew she would be alone knew that there would be blood coating her teeth and spilling over her lips knew there was no hope for her).

And that’s it.

After all this time; after the transformation from fiery party girl to prisoner to survivor; after all this she is nothing but another damn kid scared to die.

 _Does it hurt?_ She would ask if she could. _Is it dark there? Is there anything there? Will I be alone?_

But there’s no one to ask.

She’s alone and she’s falling and she doesn’t even remember why there is a knife buried in her stomach.

Doesn’t remember.

Doesn’t remember.

She’s lying on the ground, bleeding out, but it feels like she’s freefalling through space.

Until she isn’t.

Someone’s arms, firm and hard, lift her from the hard ground.

Someone’s hair, long and wavy and dark, falls across her face briefly.

Someone’s voice, fierce and firm and soft all at the same time, tells her just to breathe.

(It is easier to breathe if someone tells you to, easier to hold on if there’s someone holding onto you).

When she wakes, she’s lying on flimsy bed.

Her wounds are stitched and bandaged and she feels, surprisingly, a little strong.

And then she sees her. The woman is Sara’s age, and she is tall and dark-haired and strong.

“You’re awake.”

Sara blinks. “Am I dead?”

A shake of the head. “I found you in time.”

“Who—who are you? How did you find me? _Why_?” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Sara wonders how she has the strength to say all of that—and how she dared say anything at all to this unknown woman.

“I am Nyssa al Ghul, daughter of Ra’s al Ghul,” she said stiffly, and Sara felt her jaw hang open. “I am heir to the demon.”

“I’m…uh… I’m Sara Lance,” she says awkwardly. What the hell does ‘heir to the demon mean’ and why did this woman save her.

“You were almost killed by the madman with mirakuru,” Nyssa told her. “He left you with his knife in you.” The woman withdrew the knife from her belt and stepped towards Sara, who scrambled back to the opposite edge of her bed, fear spiking through her.

Nyssa flipped the knife in her hand and held it out to Sara, the handle facing Sara. “Take it,” she said, her eyes darkening when Sara hesitated. “And next time you see the madman, bury it in his eye.”

Sara blinked, and then wrapped her hand around the knife. As Ivo’s prisoner, she had learned to fight, and fight well, and with Oliver, Slade, and Shado, she had only grown stronger. But taking on Slade with the mirakuru running through his veins?

She knew that was impossible.

“I’m going to train you,” Nyssa announced abruptly. “And when you see the madman again, you will not have to be afraid.”

“I—I don’t know,” Sara stammered. “Why are you doing this?”

“I belong to the League, and the League did not think you could be saved,” Nyssa informed her emotionlessly. “I happened to disagree. But everything comes at a price, Sara Lance, and to heal you, I had to bring you into the League’s headquarters. And no one leaves the League’s headquarters alive unless they are a member of the League.”

Sara’s breath hitched in her throat, but she kept her expression blank. Months with Ivo had helped her in concealing emotion.

Nyssa’s caught her gaze, her piercing eyes hard and cold and sharp as flint. “Do you accept?”

Sara looked at the knife in her hand, and thought of Oliver, thought of her family, thought of a life that could never be hers again, no matter how she chose. None of them had been there. She had almost died, and they would never have known.

She was not their Sara Lance anymore.

“What will the League train me to do?” Sara asked, the calmness in her tone surprising even herself.

“Survive,” Nyssa said briefly, her eyes still trained on Sara’s face.

Sara drew a long breath. “And will your League accept me now? You brought me back from the dead, but you don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

Sara’s breath hitched in her throat again, and this time it wasn’t fear. “Who are you?” she asked again. “What does this League do?”

“You know who we are,” Nyssa said dismissively. “Your friend Oliver knew as well.”

It was true.

Each person she had encountered on Lian Yu, including Ivo, had whispered the name in fear (except for Slade, who had cursed bitterly and kicked whatever was nearest his feet at the time).

And this was the League.

This was the _heir_ to the League, saving her life and offering her a place at their side.

“I accept,” Sara said.

“Good,” Nyssa said. “We begin now.”

“But I”—

“If you had not accepted, you would be dead already,” Nyssa interrupted, yanking the thin sheet off Sara’s body. “Since you have accepted, we begin training. Get up.”

Sara sat up, wincing at the throbbing in her side where the knife had been.

“It will hurt,” Nyssa said carelessly. “And you will live. Keep that knife with you.”

“What if I can’t keep up?” Sara swung her legs over the side of the bed and got slowly to her feet. “What if I… what if I’m not strong enough?”

Nyssa reached out, her hand locking around Sara’s wrist as she pulled her to her feet. “You will,” she said firmly, and those cold eyes were fire suddenly. “There is strength in you, Sara Lance. I may have brought you back here, but you were the one who fought off death.”

 _You told me to hold on_ , Sara thought. _Of course I fought death._

“But what if I’m not strong enough?” she persisted. “What if I don’t measure up?”

“You will be strong,” Nyssa said forcefully, not releasing her death grip on Sara’s thin wrist. “And if you are not”—she paused, the lines in her face hardening—“then you will die.”


	2. Finding Life

The compound was situated on the rim of a cliff that jutted out into the ocean. The shrubbery was similar enough to Lian Yu that Sara assumed they were still relatively near the island, though there was more stark cliff face than green forest here. The compound was actually buried deep in the rock face, and the cave where she had woken opened on one side to the rest of the complex and on the other to an open, sharp drop into the ocean. It terrified her to wake up to the sound of the sea crashing below and a sharp breeze—and it thrilled her, too, in the same deep, wordless way that Nyssa did.

And Sara Lance was a survivor. She had had months with Ivo, and then with Oliver on the island, to prove that to herself. Shipwrecks and madmen and isolation had not destroyed her, and she’d be damned if she let this take her, after all this.

But the first day of training was beyond any brutality she had suffered on the boat or on the island.

Nyssa handed her a staff and told her to defend herself, and then three members of the League of Shadows converged on her, staffs ready.

She was on the ground within minutes, and she heard Nyssa shout a sharp command in a language she did not recognize. The blows let up, and a slim hand reached down.

“Get up,” Nyssa said, and Sara, still groggy and tired from her injury, groaned and reached for Nyssa’s hand.

Nyssa yanked her to her feet, and tossed her staff back at her. “Guard up,” she ordered. “Defend yourself.”

Sara swallowed hard, swaying where she stood, and looked at the three masked members of the League. She opened her mouth to beg for a break, and then she saw Nyssa’s look—waiting, testing—and she straightened her shoulders and lifted the sparring staff.

Nyssa nodded once, her dark eyes glinting sharply. A second later, she barked out another command in whatever language she had spoken previously, and the three assassins attacked her as one.

She did better the second time, sending a well-aimed blow that knocked one opponent to the ground, winded, but the other two knocked her feet again within a few minutes.

“Up,” Nyssa ordered again, and this time Sara didn’t wait for the offered hand, staggering to her feet herself.

They attacked again, the man she had knocked to the ground hesitating a fraction of a second longer to attack her, and it gave Sara the time she needed to block the first blow of one staff and knock the other opponent down with her staff.

“Guard yourself first,” Nyssa barked. “And then worry about striking your opponent.”

In the end, Sara was always the one on the ground with new bruises.

It wasn’t until one blow glanced off the side of her head, leaving a sharp gash on her temple, that Nyssa ordered the three assassins back for the last time.

“Up,” she ordered Sara, who staggered to her feet, one hand loosely holding her staff and the other pressed to her bleeding temple. “Follow me.”

Sara stumbled after her, tears pressing at the back of her eyes.

She wasn’t going to survive this.

She wasn’t.

Nyssa’s hand closed around her wrist, her grip iron, and she pulled her through a door that looked at first sight as if it was part of the cliff wall. The room was dimly lit by candles flickering here and there, and it was smaller and warmer than Sara was expecting. On one end was a small cot, and beside it a shelf full of books, looking entirely out of place in the rugged cave. On the opposite wall, weapons of all kinds were lined, and Sara felt a shudder of excitement course through her at the sight.

“Is this your… your room?” Sara asked, and Nyssa’s gaze snapped to her, her look unreadable.

“Sit down.”

“Aren’t you worried others can get in?” Sara asked, ignoring her command. “You have so many weapons here.”

“No one will touch them,” Nyssa said. “They know that one step over this threshold guarantees their death.”

“Unless you invite them in?” Sara asked.

“I don’t invite anyone in,” Nyssa said.

“Except me,” Sara finished for her, pressing both hands to her throbbing head.

Nyssa looked at her, and then her hand closed around Sara’s arm again. “I said sit down,” she said, though her tone was less sharp than it had been. “I need to see to your injuries.”

Some small, stubborn part of Sara almost uttered an _“I’m fine,”_ but the pain in her side from the knife wound was steadily increasing, and she thought better of it and swallowed her pride. She sat down on the hard stone floor, her head spinning.

Nyssa’s hands were on her forehead in an instant, feeling for a fever, scraping her damp hair off of her face, and then beginning to clean the new gash on her temple.

 _Killer’s hands_ , Sara thought with a small shudder, remembering the dark, dark days when she had been Ivo’s prisoner. _Killer’s hands, but they’re gentle with me._

“You have to keep your guard up,” Nyssa admonished again. “Protect yourself first. Always. That’s how you survive.” Her hands were gentler than her tone, and Sara relaxed just slightly, her fists unclenching slowly. “You will sleep here tonight,” Nyssa ordered coolly.

“What?” Sara squinted at her. “There isn’t room. And there’s only one cot. I’d rather sleep in the cave I was in.”

_And who are you, to be giving orders here?_

But Nyssa merely raised her eyebrows. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Why?” Sara demanded. “Why is that more dangerous than here?”

“No one will touch you when you are with me,” Nyssa told her. “But if you sleep alone in that cave, there are three assassins you humiliated today.”

Sara stared at her incredulously. “ _Me_? I didn’t humiliate anyone,” she scoffed. “I ended up lying on the ground with new bruises every single time. Anyone of them could have killed me with a snap of their fingers today.”

To her surprise, Nyssa’s expression lightened just a shade. “No, they couldn’t have,” she said.

Was that a smile twisting the corner of her lips?

“We train each recruit like we trained you,” Nyssa said. “Most cannot get up after being knocked down three or four times. You were knocked down—and I saw them glance off your knife wound at least twice—at least two dozen times, and you stood back up. They could not touch you.”

“Why was that humiliating? I may have gotten back up, but I still could barely stand. And I sure as hell couldn’t swing that staff at anyone very well,” Sara argued, confused. “I have a knife wound in my side, and I’ve lost so much blood I can barely stand. Now one of them nearly bashed my head open with their staff. Why would they be angry with me?”

“Because never before in the history of the league has Ra’s al Ghul been knocked on his ass by a new recruit,” Nyssa said, and suddenly she was grinning wolfishly at Sara, whose jaw dropped in horror.

“Your _father_? The leader of the League?” Sara stared at her in horror, but Nyssa’s grin sharpened.

“You have nothing to fear from him,” Nyssa said. “He will hold you in high regard, and he will let go of the sting to his pride. He is not a petty man. But the other two—they will want revenge for what they see as a slight on Ra’s al Ghul.”

Sara stared at her in disbelief for a long moment. “Well shit,” she said, and Nyssa smirked slightly.

“So you’ll stay with me tonight,” Nyssa concluded, but Sara straightened her shoulders stubbornly.

“No,” Sara said. “I’m going back to the cave. I can’t hide forever, and I won’t hide now.”

_You’re stupid stupid stupid and you have no chance against them._

_You know you have no chance._

_Why are you trying to impress her, you fool?_

Nyssa looked at her for a long moment, something like sadness at the back of her eyes. “That’s a fool’s choice, not a survivor’s choice,” she said sharply.

“So I should hide here?” Sara snapped, jumping to her feet and then nearly losing her balance and staggering dizzily. “I can learn to protect myself. I always do.”

Nyssa didn’t do her the courtesy of replying, just turned coldly away.

* * *

 

Nyssa was wrong.

It wasn’t just two of them who came for her.

It was six assassins, masked and silent and deadly, and they came to avenge the slight against Ra’s al Ghul.

Sara still had the knife Slade had buried in her gut, and Nyssa may have told her that it was the instinct of self-preservation that wins fights, and Oliver may have told her it was hard work and precision, and Ivo may have said it was brains, but Sara knew they were wrong, all of them.

It was desperation, pure and simple.

And tonight Sara Lance was very desperate.

She didn’t know how to fight, not well, and she had nothing but the small, thin knife clenched in her desperate fists, but the battle was over before it started.

This was her cave, her raging sea below, her darkness, and she made them suffer for each inch they took.

Two assassins were in the sea before the end of the night, and one was doubled over with her knife in his gut, and the other three hesitated a second too long.

She had the staff in her hands again—she had left it lying at her bedside—and one was down, bruised and winded, and in a second another was unconscious, and the last stood still, staring at her in wonder.

She was awake now, finally—adrenaline and terror and desperation and _god why did she suddenly feel excited_? The staff felt like an extension of her arms, and she balanced it now, a tiny grin spreading across her face. Slowly, the man reached up and removed his mask. “I am Ra’s al Ghul,” he said coolly. “And you have passed the test.”

The door behind him slammed open, and Nyssa stood there, eyes flashing with a rage Sara had never imagined.

When she saw Sara still standing, clutching the staff in her fists, relief washed across Nyssa’s face.

“What have you _done_?” she turned on her father, her tone sharp.

“I would not have let them kill her,” he said idly. “I merely followed the five assassins who came to repay my injury today. And she proved herself, Nyssa.”

“She’s bleeding,” Nyssa said angrily. “She was already injured, and you let them take her?”

“No one took her,” Ra’s al Ghul told her calmly. “In fact, she is apparently better than these five combined. That one”—he pointed to the assassin who she had struck with the staff. The man was just regaining his breath, and Sara saw the terror in his eyes.

“Kill him,” Ra’s al Ghul ordered Nyssa, and she drew a long knife from her scabbard.

“No,” Sara snapped suddenly, stepping between Nyssa and her prey.

Both looked at her, a mixture of anger and surprise in their glances.

“He’s mine,” Sara said, taking the knife from Nyssa’s hand. “And I say I will punish him by letting him live with his own humiliation. That one too,” she gestured to the man with the knife wound, and then to the unconscious one. “Have his wounds tended, and then have him train with me.”

“He will try to kill you again,” Nyssa hissed, but a smile curved Sara’s lips.

“No,” she said calmly, and the injured man looked up. “Not when he owes me his life.”

Nyssa stepped back and nodded, and Ra’s gestured to the first man to tend to the other two.

* * *

 

After that, no one touched her.

There were rumors flying through the compound, rumors that the daughter of Ra’s al Ghul still paced the corridors outside the room where the new recruit slept, rumors that the recruit herself could best Ra’s al Ghul if she wished to.

And Sara Lance emerged from her sea-borne nest every day stronger than the last.  

_“The heir to the demon watches over the sparrow she brought home,” they whispered._

_“She needs no one to watch over her. She destroyed six men in combat on her first night.”_

_“And no, not a sparrow,” someone would always add. “A canary.”_


	3. Lán wūyā

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The raven and the canary.

“ _What haven’t you told me_?” Nyssa snarled, her face inches from Sara.

She had displayed nothing but concern after the attack, but the moment they were alone in Nyssa’s quarters she was all fury.

Sara sagged against the rock wall, still clutching the staff in her fists. “What are you talking about?” she snapped.

“No one— _no one_ —can take down five members of the League like that,” Nyssa snapped.

Sara swallowed. “I was desperate,” she said finally, her voice small. “It’s the only thing I have.”

Nyssa stared at her, and Sara could see the anger drain abruptly from her face. “What did they do to you?” she asked softly.

“Nothing,” Sara said harshly, turning away from Nyssa’s piercing dark eyes. “I was with Ivo for a few months, and I learned how to survive. And then I was with Oliver and Slade and Shado for a few more months, and I learned how to fight.”

“And what about the time in between?”

Sara’s gaze snapped back to Nyssa, and the other woman was staring at her intently. “What time? What are you talking about?”

“That wasn’t Slade’s knife in your body, was it?” Nyssa asked softly, her voice low and dangerous. “ _Was it_?”

Sara shook her head, looking away, her eyes suddenly blurring with tears. “No,” she whispered, hating the shakiness in her voice. “Slade and the boat and Oliver were all gone together. I…I was on the island when they found me. I don’t know how I got to the island. I might have washed up. They might have dragged me ashore. I don’t know.”

“Who?” Nyssa asked sharply.

“They should have let me die,” Sara continued, ignoring her. “I wish they had.”

“ _Who_?” Nyssa repeated.

“A group of mercenaries,” Sara answered. “The lán wūyā. They asked me to join them.” Her hands were shaking, and she couldn’t look at Nyssa, who was standing motionless near the closed door.

“And?” Nyssa prompted.

“I said yes,” Sara said. “At first. They… trained me. More or less.”

Nyssa flinched, a movement that surprised Sara slightly. “What did they do?”

Sara shook her head. “I won’t,” she said sharply. “I _won’t_ relive that.”

“Why did they try to kill you?”

“Because of the girl they had with them,” she said. “She was going to become their whore. She was young. Sixteen, seventeen. I didn’t know about her at first, but I heard her screaming one night and I…I stopped them from touching her. I told them…I told them”—Sara broke off, clenching her fists around the staff and biting her lip in an attempt to hold back the tears.

“What?” Nyssa asked fiercely, her hands clenched. “What did you tell them?”

“I told them that if they left her alone…they could have me,” Sara said. “However they wanted. As their assassin, their negotiator… or their whore.”

A small growl escaped Nyssa.

“I saved her,” Sara said. “I knew they wouldn’t really keep their distance, so when we made a stop on the mainland I stole enough supplies from them that I could send her off. I don’t know where she is now, but I helped her escape and she was going to… going to go look for her family. She was going home. And I… I went back to face them. So they wouldn’t follow her.”

“Did you make them pay?” Nyssa asked sharply. “Did you make them _bleed_?”

“Yes,” Sara said fiercely. “There were three dozen mercenaries on the boat, and I killed sixteen men that night. And I’m not sorry. I’m not.” Her voice broke again, and this time Nyssa reached for her. Her hand closed over Sara’s wrist, but this time it was a warm, comforting pressure.

“How did you do it?” Nyssa asked softly.

“They were the ones who trained me to move silently,” Sara said. “They thought I was in my cabin, and I…I snuck above deck and began picking them off one by one. I didn’t have a chance. I knew that. But I wanted them to suffer. The men who… the men who used me…I killed them first.”

“Good,” Nyssa said, her lips tightening into a firm line. “The girl. I can find out where she is.” Her tone held a question, and Sara hesitated and then nodded.

“Was your father angry with me?” Sara asked finally. “For…”

“For knocking him on his ass?” Nyssa said wryly, her lips twitching. “No. It’s a new experience for him, but even recruits can have lucky aim.”

“The others,” Sara said. “Will they be angry?”

“No,” Nyssa said. “They will know by now how strong you are. They will respect you.”

Sara nodded.

“Sleep here tonight,” Nyssa ordered. “We train at dawn again.”

Sara groaned and flopped down on the ground near Nyssa’s bed. Nyssa looked at her strangely.

“Take the bed,” she ordered curtly. “I will not need it.”

Sara opened her mouth to protest, but Nyssa had already turned away dismissively.

Sara was asleep almost before she hit the pillow, and she did not see Nyssa grab a knife and a staff of her own and head for the door.

She was not there, either, when Nyssa strode into her father’s room unceremoniously.

“Nyssa,” he said sharply, and she bowed quickly.

“I need three men,” she said. “The best.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you give the orders?”

“The lán wūyā,” Nyssa said. “I want to pay them a visit.”

“The blue raven? They’re nothing but mercenaries,” Ra’s al Ghul said sharply. “What do you want with them?”

Nyssa ignored his question. “And I need to send one of our own to find the whereabouts of a girl who recently escaped from the lán wūyā.”

He nodded. “Take your pick of the men,” he said. “What is your business with the lán wūyā?”

“I have no business with them but death,” Nyssa said sharply. “But I want to be there to make sure they suffer first.”


	4. Spark

The next morning, Sara woke to a firm hand shaking her shoulder.

“Up,” Nyssa said, and Sara groaned.

“Where are we going?”

“You’re going to have breakfast,” Nyssa said, jerking her head towards a plate of food beside the cot. “And then we’re going to train.”

Sara looked curiously at the other woman. There was a darkness in her face today—and dark circles under her eyes—that spoke of a long night. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

Nyssa shook her head.

Suddenly, Sara straightened, staring at Nyssa’s hands. “Is that blood?”

Nyssa looked down at her hands, her expression vague and distant. “Is it? I didn’t notice.”

Sara reached out thoughtlessly, her hand closing softly over Nyssa’s wrist. “Are you okay?”

Nyssa stared at her, clearly taken aback. “I”—she stopped, and then shook her head as if to clear it. “I don’t”—

“Eat breakfast with me,” Sara ordered, tugging Nyssa by the wrist until they were seated across from each other, cross-legged.

“I don’t need to eat,” Nyssa said. “And you don’t give orders”—

Sara rolled her eyes and handed Nyssa the plate. “What were you doing all night?”

Nyssa hesitated.

“You can tell me, you know. It’s not like I have anyone to pass it on to,” Sara said, her tone almost light for the first time in months.

Nyssa’s face darkened, but she remained silent.

Suddenly, Sara stopped cold with realization. “The blue raven,” she said. “You went after them?”

Nyssa nodded, looking away.

“Are they dead?”

“All of them.”

“Good,” Sara said shakily, feeling sick. “The girl?”

“Home. Safe.”

“You?”

“What?” Nyssa stared at her, an odd, fierce look in her eyes.

“I…you have blood on you,” Sara said, suddenly hesitant. “And—killing—that takes…that doesn’t just sit easy.”

“It sits easy with me,” Nyssa said coldly. “After what they did to you.”

“You’re lying,” Sara said, and Nyssa’s head snapped up, her eyes flashing. “It affects you. It doesn’t matter if the person who died deserved it or if you hated them or if they did what the blue raven did to me. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t leave you. Ever.”

Nyssa opened her mouth and then shut it. Abruptly, she stood. “You talk a lot for a recruit,” she said, turning her back so Sara couldn’t see her face. “I’d advise you not to talk as much to the others unless you want a knife in your back.”

Sara actually smiled. “You’re not like the others,” she said briefly. “Are you?”

“Just meet me outside. You have three minutes.”

The second day of training was, if anything, worse than the first. There were more opponents, Sara was sore and tired and lightheaded, and today, her opponents showed less restraint.

Her hands were blistered, too, where she had clenched the staff tightly, and every time someone swung at her, she was overwhelmed with the terrifying memories of the fight she had so narrowly survived the night before.

(No one wins fights, Sara decided. Some just survive better off than others.)

“Up,” Nyssa ordered her for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. “With me.”

Sara followed her, noticing with relief that her sparring opponents didn’t follow them. “Where are we going?”

“You’re a recruit,” Nyssa said sharply. “It is not your place to question.”

“So,” Sara said recklessly. “Where are we going?”

Nyssa spun around, her face hard. “In my quarters I allow you to speak to me as an equal,” she hissed, her face inches from Sara’s. “I have never allowed anyone to do that. But outside my quarters, you are a recruit who barely survived her first night. You do not speak to me like an equal. You do not speak to me unless I address you. Are we clear?”

Sara clenched her teeth, looking away from the intensity of Nyssa’s gaze. “Yes,” she said through gritted teeth.

She had been stupid.

She knew that.

And she knew that no one here would let her displace the hierarchy in place in the League, but something about this woman brought out all of her hot-headedness and sharp edges.

Nyssa led her to the cave. “We’re sparring, just you and I.”

“Why?”

Nyssa’s look was dark, but she didn’t rebuke the question. “Your sparring opponents were showing too much restraint.”

“Why were they showing restraint?”

Nyssa raised her eyebrows, and Sara looked away quickly. “They were afraid of me,” Nyssa informed her calmly. “They were there when I destroyed the lán wūyā, and they know why I did it. So they know the price of touching you.”

Sara paused in her tracks, a hint of a smile twisting her lips.

“Guard up,” Nyssa ordered, and Sara barely had time to raise her staff before Nyssa started the attack.

Training with the others had been bad, but training one-on-one with Nyssa was hell.

Nyssa put her through six weeks of it, and Sara gritted her teeth and did as she was told. She slept in her cave at night, and woke early—and after the first week, she learned to wake before Nyssa reached her room.

Once, she woke in the middle of the night because of a slight noise outside her room, and she was on her feet in an instant.

When she checked each corner of the dark room and the outside corridor, however, they were both empty.

It wasn’t until weeks later that Sara learned Nyssa would pace the corridor outside her room, a weapon in each hand and a look on her face that would have almost struck terror into the heart of Ra’s al Ghul.

At the end of the sixth week, Nyssa lead Sara to her quarters after training.

“Eat,” Nyssa ordered briefly.

“Are we continuing training afterwards?”

Nyssa rolled her eyes. “Questions never end,” she complained, and Sara stared at her in amazement.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

“No,” Nyssa said shortly, her indignant tone implying that eye-rolling was beneath her.

“You did,” Sara argued. “You’re the heir to the demon and you just rolled your eyes at me. But you didn’t answer my questions. Are we going to train after supper?”

“No,” Nyssa said. “You’re here to eat. Is that so difficult?”

“No,” Sara said, reaching for the plate in front of her. “But you did roll your eyes at me.”

“You would do well to listen more than you talk, recruit,” Nyssa said sharply, taking a seat opposite Sara.

“Make me,” Sara said brazenly, and Nyssa paused, her dark eyes fierce.

Slowly, a small, almost savage smile twisted her lips. “How do you suggest I do that?” Nyssa asked slowly, her eyes dark with something Sara could not name. “I haven’t found a way to shut you up since you first arrived.”

Sara leaned closer, adrenaline and excitement and something else crashing through her body as her hand just brushed Nyssa’s arms. “I’m sure,” she said, and she was suddenly breathless. “You could think of something.”

And then Nyssa leaned forward, sending their plates flying, and she was kissing Sara, sharp and hard and sweet and lasting, and Sara couldn’t breathe didn’t need to breathe just wanted Nyssa closer closer closer—

And Sara Lance forgot all about islands and mercenaries and hellish training and let Nyssa al Ghul, heir to the demon, take her breath away.


	5. Homeward

The first mission Sara was assigned to was a solo mission—something that surprised everyone, including Nyssa.

“I didn’t think your father trusted me,” Sara said softly, her words sounding fragile in the dimly lit space between them.

Nyssa was stretched out on their shared cot, her lips slightly parted as she watched Sara carefully.

“Does he?” Sara persisted.

Nyssa was silent for a long moment, her fingers trailing lightly across Sara’s skin, leaving goose-bumps in their wake. Nyssa’s hand paused on the left side of Sara’s chest, warm over her bare skin. Her heart sped up, and she knew Nyssa felt it—the solid _thump, thump, thump_ that had been so slow and faltering just months ago.

“He trusts this, beloved,” Nyssa whispered, moving closer until her body covered Sara’s, though her hand lingered over Sara’s heart. “As do I.”

* * *

 

If only things had been that simple.

It was a kill mission—thought it was not Sara’s first kill.

“It changes you,” Nyssa whispered one night, somewhere between midnight and the dawn upon which Sara would depart. “There is darkness in you, Ta-er al-Sahfer. But even darkness is often lit with stars, and tomorrow—I fear tomorrow may dim the stars.”

“If it were possible to dim the stars,” Sara whispered back, her fingers weaving through Nyssa’s. “Then how is it you shine so brightly?”

* * *

 

Only it wasn’t easy.

Sara had killed men before.

There had been who pulled open her legs roughly to have their way—and she had made her legs a vise and snapped their necks. There were men—like Ivo—who had pushed her so deep into darkness that she could not recognize herself—and she had crushed them like glass under her already-bleeding feet. But that was this new Sara, this Sara who survived islands and miracles and assassins.

The old Sara—the fierce child who shone brightly even in her sister’s shadow and whose laugh was as beautiful as a birdsong—the old Sara had never dreamed of killing.

And the target—

Well, the target was a man who had once known that old Sara.

His name was Asa; Asa Turner, college flame.

There had been an Oliver Queen party back in the day—some tequila, some dancing, some laughter—and she had pulled Asa Turner into a spare bedroom in the Queen mansion and kissed him until she forgot the way she felt when Oliver danced with Laurel and Tommy drank himself into nothing.

But now, as she stood over him with the spear she must drive through his heart, she remembered it all with piercing clarity.

“Who are you?” he begged, and she could not look at him; could not look at the tears and snot and blood mingled on the face of someone who had seen her in her childhood.

A plunge of the spear, and it is over.

* * *

 

Later, Nyssa held her in the darkness of their seaborne bedroom as Sara shook silently, unable to find tears.

“Did you know that As—the target—did you know”—

Nyssa’s silence spoke for itself.

“Was it a test?” Sara asked. “And did he deserve it?”

“Sara”—

“ _Did he deserve it_?”

“The girl you rescued outside of Chaing Mai during our training,” Nyssa said abruptly, looking over Sara’s head and into the churning sea. “He found her later, used her, and then when he was finished he carved her up and left her on the side of the road like so much trash.”

Sara felt her body spasm, and then she was vomiting and Nyssa was holding her hair out of her face.

“It was a habit of his,” Nyssa continued calmly. “He was rich and powerful and untouchable, and he has been treating prostitutes like that all of his life. Including the time when you knew him in college. He was also an important political target, but I know you. And I know what matters more to you.”

Sara stopped retching, her spine stiffening and something cold curling into a knot in the pit of her stomach. “He was using women like that when I knew him?” she asked.

“Yes,” Nyssa said.

“Then you were wrong,” Sara said. “He did not deserve it.”

“Beloved?”

“He did not deserve a slow death,” Sara said fiercely. “He did not deserve that mercy.”

“No,” Nyssa said softly. “But you did not deserve the pain that torturing him would have caused _you_.”

That night, Sara did not sleep. Instead, when Nyssa was finally resting, Sara slipped out and relieved one of the guards, eager as she was for some duty.

Dawn was just beginning to slip inside the darkness of the cave when Sara heard the words that once again turned her world on its head.

“Does she know?” Ra’s asked, his voice low and barely audible from the other side of the thin wall between them.

“About her city?” another league member asked. “Or about her family?”

“Neither.” It was Nyssa, calm and cool as always. “But she will. Merlyn broke the code of the League when he unleashed the earthquake machine on Starling City and threatened the family of my beloved. الطائر الأصفر—my canary—will help me avenge it.”

Only Sara doesn’t wait that long. _Can’t_ wait that long.

Because Dad and Oliver and Tommy and Sin and Thea and Laurel were in danger—might be hurt or worse. _Laurel_.

After all this time, it is her sister’s name that calls Sara Lance out of the darkness. So she puts on a mask and the jacket that marks her as Nyssa’s beloved, and raises her staff.

It is time—at last—for the Canary to return home.


	6. Laurel

_Author’s Note: Sorry for the lack of updates—just returned from vacation & finally had the chance to write. I’m going a bit AU (if you hadn’t figured that out already), because…well, the canon for these two sucks, and my badass queer ladies deserve so much better. Enjoy the update!_

The city that Sara Lance once knew is in chaos when she finds it, and her sister—oh, _god_ her sister is crumbling with loss.

Sara had always been the fiercer of the two, but Laurel had loved her Tommy Merlyn with a savagery and a depth that surprised even Sara. And she grieved for him; grieved wildly, and Sara would have given anything to cross the divide between them and hold her sister in her arms.

And then she would look down at her hands, where the shade of the blood she had shed lingered, and she thought of the times she had brought death, and she knew: protecting Laurel from the shadows; leaving her sister unsullied; is the only kind of goodness she has left.

Malcolm is dead, too—and Sara is breathless with anger that she is robbed of her vengeance. Of course it was Oliver, bleeding out on a rooftop to save this city and finally slaying the demon that had ravaged the place he loved. Of all of them on that hellish island, Oliver had been the one whom had never given up hope. Never wavered.

She rescues him occasionally—not that he knows, of course. And that angry, dark-eyed boy in the red hoodie; she rescues him, too. Sin tells her that he’s a good kid, despite appearances.

But mostly, Sara Lance is alone.

She had embarked on a rescue mission and left half her heart on the other side of the globe.

She wonders if Nyssa will come for her; if the League will come.

Will the League kill her?

Or will Nyssa come, all anger and desire and savagery, and take her home?

There are many cold nights when it is the only thing Sara wants.

But still, there is something about home that draws her and does not let go.

And the day Oliver Queen discovers her is the day she decides she has to stay—but it’s not for him.

She had saved Oliver’s ass, again. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Shock and hope and disbelief had all waged war in his face, and then he had pulled her close, his heart beating fast next to hers.

He takes her back to the set-up below his club, where his bodyguard—a man Sara Lance fiercely respects for being able to put up with Oliver for so long—greets her with skepticism.

Sara nods coolly to him, but does not plan to linger.

She has to go.

She can already feel it; the pulse of the sea in the harbor that calls her on a journey back to the arms of her beloved; the spark of life in her fingers as it closes around her staff. Oliver Queen’s words can never call her back home; not after all this.

But then—

There’s a knock, and a surprised _oh_ and the dimly lit lair is suddenly filled with light.

“Felicity Smoak,” the light says, and Sara blinks rapidly to discover that it is a person—a small, blond-haired woman in brightly-colored dress and high heels—speaking.

“Sara Lance,” she says, and she sees a sharp glimpse of knowing in John Diggle’s eyes when her gaze lingers on the other woman.

And the Canary had already decided to stay.

* * *

 

Nyssa arrives weeks later, striding through the dark streets of Starling City with a knife in her graceful fist and desire in her eyes, and Sara kisses her madly in front of a shocked Oliver Queen.

“Come home, beloved,” Nyssa says, and Sara yearns for the taste of her beloved on her lips again.

But—and it is a strange thing, this _but_ —there was a light in Felicity Smoak’s eyes that Sara cannot forget.

“My family,” she says, but Nyssa sees the truth in her eyes.

“Is safe. They’re safe. So come home.”

 But in the weeks Sara has been back, she has seen a different kind of love at work—the kind of love that displays when Felicity puts a hand on Oliver’s shoulder and calls him back out of the darkness of his mind. A kind of love in Felicity’s impassioned voice when she tells Oliver—and Sara, too—that there must be another way than killing.

Sara has never viewed love as an exclusive thing; has always wondered why she cannot love more than one person at once. There is enough life and passion twisting in her gut to love the whole world—and certainly enough to love her savage Nyssa and her bright Felicity.

Nyssa makes threats, but Sara’s laugh is bright as she kisses her beloved’s forehead on that dim street.

Behind her, Oliver clears his throat.

“Your friend looks surprised,” Nyssa says coldly. “You didn’t tell him about me, I take it? About us?”

“No,” Sara said. “But not because of you.”

“Why, then?”

“Because of _me_ ,” Sara whispers, and she knows that her own eyes mirror the shadows that ravage Nyssa’s. “Because I didn’t want him to know the monster I became when I killed.”

“Is this because of the last man you killed? Asa Turner?”

Sara shakes her head. “It’s all of them. There must—there must be a better way, my love.”

Nyssa’s gaze is sad as she draws back, and Sara is suddenly cold at the absence of her touch. “You know as well as I do that there is no going back,” she says sternly. “There is no other way. The only way to leave the League is to die—and the only way to stay with the League is to kill.”

Sara flinches at her words, and turns to Oliver, whose own heavy look offers her no answers.

“Oliver, give us a moment,” Sara says softly. “Give us—give us tonight. I’ll be alright.”

Nyssa’s eyes flick towards him, and the intensity in her gaze would have cowed any lesser man in an instant. It doesn’t take Oliver long, however, to break her gaze and step away.

“You can stay at my place under the club tonight,” he says. “I’ll stay at Thea’s place tonight.”

He disappears as quickly and as silently as he arrived, and Sara turns back to face Nyssa.

“One night, Nyssa,” she whispers. “I want to show you why I want to stay.”

Because if there is anyone who can convince Nyssa al Ghul, Heir to the Demon, of the value of peace, it is Felicity Meghan Smoak.


	7. Felicity Smoak

The lair is dimly lit when they arrive, and Nyssa surveys it coolly. “You would choose _this_ , beloved?”

Sara laughed. “This is primitive.”

“No, you _like_ primitive,” Nyssa argued, the corner of her lips turning upwards. “Sparring by the sea at dawn? In that godforsaken cave at the top of the rock? Your staff? That is primitive, my love. But better than this.”

But Sara has no more time to respond with words, because she is kissing Nyssa with everything she has in her. “My _love_ ,” she moans into Nyssa’s mouth, and then Nyssa half lifts her and pushes her against the wall behind her, pinning her wrists as she kisses Sara’s neck.

“Umm. Sorry. I didn’t realize”— Felicity is standing at the top of the stairs, blushing furiously, and Sara stands up quickly, straightening her clothes.

“Sorry,” Felicity says quickly. “I’ll just be leaving”—

“No,” Sara says a little too hastily. “Stay. Felicity, this is”—

“Nyssa al Ghul, heir to the demon,” the other woman says regally, her chin tilting upwards.

“Felicity Meghan Smoak, MIT class of ’09,” she says brightly, stepping in close and holding out her hand to shake Nyssa’s.

And Sara can see it—her beloved is already entranced.

“So, I absolutely and completely did not mean to,” Felicity says, leaning her elbow on the table and looking up at Sara with a mischievous little grin on her face. “But I head that you like _primitive_. Was that a sexual innuendo? I couldn’t tell if the reference to the staff was—god, I’m babbling again. Sorry. I’m going to stop talking.”

For the briefest of moments, Sara thought Nyssa would consider it a disrespect, but instead, the tiniest of smiles crept to her face, lighting up her dark eyes.

“Sara had that problem too,” she said. “She never stopped talking.”

Felicity grinned. “How did you shut her up?”

“With a kiss,” Nyssa said, her eyes roving slowly over Felicity’s face, and Sara heard the younger woman’s intake of breath.

“I wonder if that would work on me,” Felicity said. “God—I didn’t—wow. I didn’t mean that I was asking you to kiss me. Or that I _didn’t_ want you to kiss me. God, why am I still talking about kissing? Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Nyssa said, her fingers curling through Sara’s. “Stay. If my beloved will be staying in this city of thieves, I want to at least know a little more about the person she’s staying for.”

Sara’s eyes widened, and Felicity straightened at the same moment.

“I don’t know what you’re”—

“Oh, my love,” Nyssa cut her off, leaning close so that her breath was hot against Sara’s racing pulse. “You and I have the same look in our eyes when this woman is in the room. And you and I both know you would not be staying in this city for Oliver Queen.”

Felicity looked back and forth between both of them, and then, to Sara’s everlasting surprise, she stepped closer to Sara. “I like your Nyssa,” she said boldly. “Oliver dangles maybes. She just wants to kiss me. Did I say that out loud? I said that out loud. So I guess the only question we have left is do _you_?”

“Want to kiss you?” Sara asked.

“Or have sex in the Arrow’s lair?” Nyssa interrupted, and Felicity giggled.

 “I told you I liked her,” Felicity said, her hand resting over Nyssa and Sara’s intertwined fingers. “She’s much more direct than Oliver Queen.”

Nyssa laughed—a sound that was low and clear and sweet and took Sara’s breath away.

And that was how Sara Lance knew: she was not the only one bewitched by Felicity Smoak. 


End file.
